


Reality? What's that?

by vengefulvicious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Coda, First Kiss, M/M, Nothing is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Post-Episode: s14e20 Moriah, Smut, chuck is a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 04:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vengefulvicious/pseuds/vengefulvicious
Summary: post 14x20 Coda, written after watching up to 15x05, so if you catch any references, that's why :')Dean and Cas try to talk about Chuck's influence over the lives of TFW, and nothing goes to plan. Inspired by this lovelypost
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Reality? What's that?

Dean was halfway through a bottle of Jack before he was rudely interrupted.

“Where’s Sam?”

He looked up to find a dishevelled Castiel shoving his bedroom door open and sauntering in, boldly and uninvited. He stood in the doorway, trench-coated frame outlined starkly from the light in the hallway, all rigid lines and barely contained thunder storms. With a casual flick of the wrist, he flipped on the light, making Dean wince violently with the sudden flare of brightness.

“Ow! What the fuck, Cas? Turn that shit off,” he hissed, eyes squeezed against the assault on his retinas. 

“What are you doing here in the dark?”

He squinted up at Cas with watery eyes, whiskey bottle sitting precariously between his outspread legs. Through the stinging, he could just make out Cas’ face. The disapproval was practically rolling off him in waves, head cocked to the side, brows aggressively furrowed and pink mouth set in a mirthless line. Dean steered his gaze away, frankly not in the mood for the angel’s self-righteous and wholly unwanted judgement. 

“What’s it look like? I’m drowning my sorrows. Pull up a seat and join me if you want, Chuck knows we’ve got nothing better to do.”

Cas’s blue-eyed stare was a tangible thing as it studied Dean’s outspread form, before it turned to regard the countless empty beer cans that littered his bed and were strewn unceremoniously about the floor. “How long have you been in here? And where’s Sam?”

Dean clucked his tongue in annoyance, head banging listlessly against the headboard. “Christ, what the fuck’s with all the questions? I don’t know where Sam is, probably wallowing in some dark corner like he’s been doing since Jack and the damn Equaliser. Now, if you don’t mind, kinda in the middle of something here.”

He punctuated his statement with a messy wave of his hand, shooing Cas away. He slinked deeper into the memory foam mattress, grabbed the neck of his bottle and took a sloppy gulp, having given up on a glass a while ago. He grimaced at the welcome burn, felt the liquid heat slide down his aching throat and settle warmly in the pit of his belly. 

Rather than turning back on his heel, Castiel had taken two strides closer and now stood right at the foot of Dean’s bed. His shadow fell across Dean’s body, a heavy, looming presence apparently dead set on disturbing Dean’s pity party. 

“Dean,” Castiel began, gravelly voice booming around the room in a way that deeply grated on Dean’s nerves, “I know what happened with Chuck wasn’t…_ideal_, but this,” he gestured tersely at Dean’s form, all judgy and irritating, “is no way to fix the problem.”

Dean huffed a harsh laugh. “Ideal? Try completely friggen life-changing, Cas. Fixing a problem isn’t really an option when said problem is fucking God.”  
“So that’s it? You’re willing to step back and let the circumstances beat you down without even lifting a finger to fight? That does not sound like the Dean Winchester I know.”

There was a thick knot forming in the back of Dean’s throat, a painful thing that constricted his voice, that tightened its grip on his airways so that his words came out gruffer, more miserable-sounding than he’d intended. “You mean the one who’s had Chuck’s hand up his ass like a puppet this whole time? That’s the Dean Winchester you’re banking on? Cause let me tell ya, turns out dude’s about as useless as I am.” 

There must’ve been something in Dean’s face, a crack in the carefully constructed façade that made Cas’ own face soften, made the blue-eyes simmer with a rush of concern and _pity_. Very gingerly, Castiel took a small step forward, before slowly, gently, lowering himself onto the bed beside Dean’s jean-clad legs. He sat in silence, hands placed very conspicuously in his own lap, as though he was afraid that taking up too much space would result in some kind of outburst from Dean.  
“Dean,” he began softly, “you can’t drink you’re way out of this. We need to talk about what happened.”

He didn’t know how to handle the cautious way in which Cas was treating him, couldn’t stomach the tenderness in his wide-eyed gaze, the warmth pouring out of the celestial body almost pressed against his legs. So he responded in the only way he knew how, throwing out a hefty dose of acerbic sarcasm with a dash of that ole’ Winchester deflection for good measure. 

“Christ, Cas, what are we, a pair of sorority sisters?” he spat, sitting up straighter in his anger, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously in the bottle still clutched in his hands. “You wanna braid each other’s hair and have pillow fights too?”

“I hardly think either of our hair is long enough to _braid_, Dean—” 

Dean groaned loudly, fingers rising up to rub harshly at his tired face, to run agitatedly through his hair. “I’m not in the mood, Cas. I don’t need to hear it, or _talk_ about it. Especially not with _you_.”

The look of total bafflement that was so utterly _Cas_ was back on the angel’s face. Head cocked, eyebrows frowning in confusion. The expression was so familiar to Dean now he could map it out with his eyes closed, sometimes even saw it in his dreams. With a pang, he realised that he’d somehow grown fond of it over the years. But seeing it now was like rubbing salt in a rapidly festering wound, a physical reminder of everything Dean lost, everything he’d never have. Unable to withstand being the subject of that gaze, he had to look away. 

“What do you mean by that? Would you prefer to talk to Sam instead?” Cas inquired, endlessly puzzled.

“No, Cas, fuck! Why won’t you just leave this alone? What the fuck is there to say, anyway? You were there. You saw exactly what happened. We’re nothing but a bunch of dancing monkeys. Products of design. Nothing we ever did fucking matters,” he snarled bitterly. 

He was getting amped up now, could feel that fury that’d been bubbling for days sharply unfurl inside him. It hummed through his veins like electricity, sloshed around with the whiskey deep in his belly, sent stabbing sparks of heat into the coils of his nerves. He felt the sheer truth of his words settle around him like a suffocating blanket. Everything he’d ever known, everything he’d ever did was the result of a few tugs of his strings, an insidious shove in the right direction as he met all of his cues, as he put on a performance like an elephant in a circus. They really thought they’d saved the world. Ha. It was all just some sick joke. 

Dean thought that Cas could feel the rising tension simmering under the surface of Dean’s skin, because he was leaning forward now, frown etched deep into his brow, a raging storm churning within those earnest blue eyes as they burrowed into Dean’s. 

“That’s not true and you know it. Free will exists,” Cas insisted. “You showed me that. We subverted my father’s plans together once before, and now we will accomplish that again. You must believe that, Dean.”

Once again, Dean found himself unable to hold the angel’s stare. He looked away in disgust, whiskey now forgotten in the wake of his rage, his utter hopelessness. His next words were ungentle and laced with venom that burned his throat on their way out. “Oh, spare me the fucking lecture, would you? Free will is a goddamn illusion. We tried to do away with destiny, we balled up the script and shoved it right up heaven’s ass right? Except this whole time, we were playing right into that sick bastard’s hands. Every time we thought we won? Stopping the apocalypse, beating Lucifer? That wasn’t us, that was Chuck!” He was leaning forward now too, chest heaving breathlessly as the bitter tang of his tirade filled his mouth. “Open your fucking eyes, Cas. Take a hard look at what’s in front of you. _Nothing_ is real.” 

And Cas, who was literally created to serve God’s every whim and fancy…he was the un-realist of them all. For Dean, Cas’ very existence casts him into doubt, because Cas had been a deliberate and strategic insertion into their lives. He was a plot device, the function of his introduction merely a means of furthering Chuck’s narrative, of cranking up the action and suspense as their story hurtled towards a climax that was already written. If anything, Cas was only a physical representation of God’s pervasive and omnipotent presence in Sam and Dean’s lives. And if Dean couldn’t even rely on the truth, on the reality of the best friend he’s ever had, then what else was left for him? 

Cas was shaking his head before Dean had finished his embittered speech, face anguished as he watched the Righteous Man he’d fought his way through hell for crumble before him. He waited in silence, allowed Dean’s quickened breath to return to normal before he spoke again. 

“Dean, look at me.” It was a command that Dean could only obey.

With noticeable reluctance, Dean raised his head and met Cas’ beseeching stare. Dean’s mouth was twisted up scornfully, his eyes bloodshot and scowling, the green of them piercingly vivid. 

“You want to know what’s real, Dean?” Cas asked, voice low and made of stone and conviction. “We are. When I broke free from heaven’s control, when I chose humanity over my siblings again and again—all of that was _real_.” 

That same mirthless huff of laughter bubbled out of Dean, but it somehow sounded more bitter this time. More broken. “You poor, stupid son of a bitch. You really believe you had a choice in the matter, don’t you? You rebelled for _this_? I’d want my money back if I were you.” 

“You taught me how to stand up. What to stand for. Without you, I would still be heaven’s bitch, as you say,” Cas mouth quirked up slightly at the edges, something like fondness spreading across his features. “I would do it all over again if I had to.” 

Dean sat silent and regarded Cas with narrowed eyes, taking a swig from his bottle and swallowing it down thickly. Castiel stared back unwaveringly, never breaking eye contact. His face was stony, spine obstinately rigid, his body twisted towards Dean from his precarious position at the edge of the bed. The silence between them stretched in the wake of Cas’ words. Dean felt the weight of them press against his chest, felt them wound tightly around his neck like a boa constrictor. 

Dean cleared his throat, breaking their staring match. When he spoke, his voice was shakier than he ever wanted it to be. “Why the hell are you even here, Cas? How can you even look at me after…after what I did with Jack?”

Now it was Cas’ turn to avert his gaze, and Dean witnessed the flash of heartache streak across the angel’s face before it was masked again. He watched Cas rapidly blink away tears before the angel spoke again. “I do not blame you for that. We both made mistakes. I understand the turmoil you were going through…that you still are going through. With Mary’s death,” he said the last word tentatively, as if that would somehow lessen the blow. Then he lifted his dark head and met Dean’s green eyes head on. “But Dean, what happened with…with Jack…that should tell you all you need to know about free will. You didn’t pull the trigger, Dean. Don’t you see? You were able to circumvent Chuck’s machinations. You made your own choice.”

“And what the fuck is that in the face of everything else?” Dean spat acrimoniously. “Our whole fucking lives, Cas. All of it was born out of manipulation. Azazel, mom’s death, Sam and the demon blood? Our life is a goddamn circus show made to entertain some bored out of his mind, all-powerful dickbag. None of it is real.”

Cas’ answering growl rumbled out from somewhere deep inside his chest, guttural and practically dripping in frustration. Dean felt its echo mirrored in his own chest, couldn’t help his startled gulp at the sound. Cas was getting closer now, too close, face merely inches away from Dean’s as he reached out with both hands and clutched tightly at his grey t-shirt. 

“Dean, _I’m_ real. I’m sitting right here.” Dean was stunned into silence at their proximity, the sheer intensity it, his eyes wide and trying fruitlessly not to drown in the depthless pools of Cas’. Cas’ voice was defiant and resounding, something that sounded too much like desperation seeping into his words. “You’re real. I can see the golden shine of your soul. I can feel the blood pumping through your veins, the purity, the tangibility of _life_, of humanity, that flows out of you like a dam.” A hand that had been tangled in Dean’s shirt slid along Dean’s chest to rest on his hammering heart, palm hot enough to smart the skin beneath the thin fabric. Dean could feel the warmth of Cas’ breath waft against his face, could count the tiny, barely-there freckles smattered haphazardly across his skin like stars in the night sky. When Cas spoke again, he was so close that Dean could feel Cas’ stubble brush against his own with the movement of his words. “I can feel your heart that, after everything—hell, purgatory—still beats a steady rhythm into my hand. Reality is right here, Dean.”

Both of them were breathing heavily now, chests brushing with each rapid breath, the air between them so staticky and thick with tension, Dean thought he could swim in it. Cas has breached way past Dean’s personal space boundaries, and Dean couldn’t lift a finger to push him away, couldn’t even open his mouth to say something, _anything_ that could stop whatever the fuck was happening in its tracks. He was staring dumbly now, he knew he was, and the whole situation was just too fraught, too intimate, for Dean’s taste. The tension between them that was years in the making had suddenly ratcheted up to levels he couldn’t handle, dangling them perilously over a cliff with no rope to pull them back over the edge. 

He didn’t know which one of them had moved first, barely registering Cas’ fluttering eyelashes before his lips were suddenly pressed against the angel’s. They moved together with a sense of urgency and desperation, going from zero to a hundred with a speed that left him reeling. His hands fisted into the back of Cas’ trench coat as he hauled the angel in closer so he could nip and bite at his plump lips. It was messy and inelegant, all groping hands and clashing teeth and the mashing of tongues as they raced to taste as much of the other as they could. His inhibitions had been rendered useless by all the alcohol he’d guzzled, and that knowledge only made his movements more fervent as he chased the wet heat of Cas’s mouth before his sober brain could remind him what a hugely bad idea this was. 

His hands were manoeuvring Cas’ trench off as Cas’ lips pinned him to the headboard. The angel was giving as good as he was getting, fingers shoving at the hem of Dean’s shirt, fighting to shuck it off. He growled in irritation into Dean’s open mouth, breathless and infinitely needy. They came up for air only long enough for Dean to pull the shirt over his head before their lips were melded together again. Dean moaned throatily into it, savouring the scrape of Cas’ rough stubble against his face. He pawed blindly at Cas’ shirt, fighting to undo the buttons with unsteady hands, that need for _moremoremore_ completely shutting his brain down as an overwhelming desire, sudden and all-consuming, burned through his veins. 

Having finally given up the effort on Cas’ shirt, Dean tugged sharply at the edges, heard the satisfying sound of popping buttons as they flew off the irksome shirt and scattered to the floor. Cas’ chest was suddenly bared before him, the broad span of smooth, tanned skin just begging to be tasted. Dean surged forward, pressing a trail of sloppy kisses over the taut flesh. He pushed Cas down against the mattress as he licked and nipped gently at Cas’ inviting nipples, fingers moving nimbly over the notches of Cas’ ribs and down to the jut of his hipbones, his mouth not far behind. 

Cas writhed wantonly beneath him, long limbs tangling with Dean’s until it was unclear where one began and the other ended. They rutted loosely against each other, crotches pressed agonisingly close through the rough fabric of their pants.

Dean was achingly hard, dick straining against his jeans, begging to be let out. He felt Cas’ fingertips at his waistband as he pressed wet kisses into Cas’ throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His button popped free and Cas’ hand was suddenly in his boxers, stroking the soft flesh there. 

Dean bucked into it, moaning shamelessly as he thrust his throbbing dick into Cas’ long-fingered fist, wondering where the hell Cas had learned _that_. His mouth was hanging open in ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut against the mind-numbing pleasure. Cas’ hand was tangled securely in his hair as he rushed forward to capture Dean’s lips with his own, open mouthed and so incredibly filthy it made Dean want to sob. 

“Cas. Please, Cas.”

His hands were fumbling at Cas’ pants now, clumsily, desperately, and Cas thankfully got the message because he was undoing his own button with a single, deft manoeuvre, lifting his hips so that Dean could pull the damned slacks off and chuck them unceremoniously to the floor. 

Dean wasted no time as he slotted their dicks together, skin on skin, his hand wrapping around both of their lengths. They thrust together with abandon, quick, graceless jerks of their bodies, their actions led by a hungry desire that completely consumed their minds and sent fire coursing through their veins, rendering them into a mess of pure sensation and animalistic heat. 

Cas’ body was spasming with the shock waves of his pleasure, dark head thrown back against the sheets, back arching so their hips were pressed flush against each other, blue-eyes liquid and feverish, and Dean thought the angel had never looked more beautiful than he did at that moment. Dean panted harshly into Cas’ neck as they used each other’s bodies to chase away the frustration and anger and bitterness that was a constant presence in their lives. 

*

When it was over they remained entangled, Dean’s leg jammed between both of Cas’, the angel’s back pressed close against Dean’s chest. Dean nose was buried in Cas’ dark hair, occasionally pressing soft, lazy kisses there. A post-sex haze had settled over them, a huge contrast from the crazed ardour of their union, and Dean felt loose-limbed and, unbelievably, content, despite all the bullshit of the last couple of days. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced since that day in the bunker all those months ago, when he’d leaned against the war room wall and watched as his family laughed joyously when Mary and Sam had tried to teach Cas and Jack the Macarena. It had been a fruitless effort; turns out angels had enough mojo to smite the worst hell had to offer but stacked up roaringly short when it came to rhythm and coordination. Dean had replayed the memory so often in his mind it was now cemented there permanently, and he liked to occasionally pull it up on rainy days, to reminisce fondly on that feeling of _rightness_, no matter how fleeting it had been. 

Dean had been tracing absentminded patterns into the soft skin over Cas’ hip when Cas broke the silence. His voice was a low murmur, as though he didn’t want to disturb the peace that had settled between them. “Well, that was…quite unexpected,” Cas said. Dean could feel the reverberations of the words in his own chest.  
Dean scoffed. Understatement of the century. “You mean you didn’t expect me to jump your bones when you came in here to steamroll me with a lecture?” he asked in gruff amusement. 

“There was no rolling of any steam,” Cas replied, and although Dean couldn’t see his face, he could imagine the puzzled dip in between Cas’ brow. “However, I must ask, Dean—what brought this on? You are usually less prone to explicit displays of physical affection, much less towards the male species such as my vessel.”

“Physical aff—it’s sex, Cas,” he admonished with an eyeroll. “Let’s just call it what it is. And, I dunno. Guess I figured if none of this is real, might as well have some fun with it right?”

They were pressed so closely, limb flush against limb, that Dean could feel the exact moment Cas physically stiffened in his arms, his body suddenly tensing up so tight it could snap. He jostled the arm Dean had strewn along Cas’ side as he pushed up to look down at Dean, sex hair out in full force. “So, what we just did…that was out of _fun_?”

Dean’s mouth quirked in his trademarked obnoxiously cocky smirk, hand going up to press at Cas’ waist. “I mean, yeah. You gotta admit I was pretty good, huh? Made it fun for you too, didn’t I?”

“It was wonderful,” Cas murmured truthfully. “Although it seems your motivations are less so.”

“My motivations?”

Cas hand moved to rest on top of Deans’ on his hip, gripping tightly. “Tell me, Dean. If your handle on life hadn’t just shattered in the aftermath of Chuck’s revelations, would this have ever happened?”

“Why does that even matter, Cas? What are you getting at here?”

“Answer the question.” Cas’ stare was relentless, mouth pressed in a firm line, his eyes churning with barely restrained emotion as they bored in to Dean’s, compelling him to respond. 

Dean sighed in resignation, hands going up to rub at his tired face. “I don’t know, Cas. I mean, I guess what happened did make the chances of this happening ratchet up pretty high.”

Cas’ eyes guttered, the fire in them dying at the words. “Right. Because nothing is real, and therefore nothing matters.”

“No, Cas, that’s not what I mean—”

Cas was getting up now, wrenching the covers off his still-naked body and taking his warmth with him. “I know what you meant, Dean. You think your life is a script. Contrived. You think the people in your life are only literary devices, objects placed there by Chuck’s manipulations. That’s what I am to you. That’s why you did what you did.”

Dean had sat up straight at Cas’ words, thin sheets pooling below his waist, watching as Cas began to dig for his clothes on the floor. He was shaking his head, that cold, hollow pit in his belly yawning open again. “Cas, I’m really struggling here, man. I don’t know what’s up or down, what’s real or fake. I don’t know if anything can be real. If any choice I’ve ever made was a choice that I ever made. I just…I don’t know anything. I just need time to figure it out.”

Cas had already shoved up his pants and buttoned them up, apparently too ready to shag ass out of there to bother with his boxers. He halted his movements as he turned to look at Dean. He looked anguished, face scrunched up with glaring emotion. “I have these feelings, Dean. Strong human emotions that I should never have been able to experience. But I do, and I feel them towards you. Since I felt the golden call of your soul in hell, I felt connected to you. Our bond was profound, that has always been the case. What occurred between us…I have been waiting to do that for a long time. It meant a lot to me, even if it was only ‘fun’ for you.” There were those damn air quotes again. Amidst the tension of the moment, Dean was half surprised and amused the angel had managed to use them correctly this time. 

He’d located his shirt, tried to futilely smooth out the crinkles before he slipped his arms into it. He huffed in agitation when he tried to do it up and realised there were no buttons left standing, and his hands pulled up to roughly scrub through his hair. Dean couldn’t recall the last time Cas had looked so damn agonised, and something in his chest tugged at the sight. “It was real to me,” Cas murmured. “And it…does not feel good to know that that is not reciprocated.”

Dean shuffled closer to the edge of the bed, only an arm’s length away from the angel. “Fuck, Cas. You’re pulling the jilted lover act on me now? It was nice to just forget about our problems for one goddamn second, wasn’t it? Fuck knows we need a damn distraction from all the bullshit constantly raining down on us.” He grabbed Cas’ hand, looked up through his eyelashes in a way that could only be called pleading. “We don’t need to overthink it, Cas.”

Cas stared down at their clasped hands, unable to pull away just like he was unable to look Dean in the eyes while he delivered his next words. “I can’t do that. I can’t just be a distraction for you, not in this way. But I will always be your friend, Dean.”

It was Dean who pulled his hand away first, snatching it back so fast as though he’d been burned. “So now you’re friendzoning me. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh?”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean scoffed derisively, settling back in the bed, hand once again reaching for the discarded bottle of Jack on his nightstand. “Yeah. Close the door on your way out.”

And that’s what Cas did.


End file.
